


Incentive Salience

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Het, First Time, M/M, Romance, Series 3, Slash, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incentive Salience

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for series 3.

**Title:** Incentive Salience  
 **Author:** htebazytook  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** angst  
 **Disclaimer:** *disclaims*  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock, (John/Mary)  
 **Time Frame:** series 3  
 **Author's Notes:** Spoilers for series 3.  
 **Summary:** Having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting.

 

"A type of incentive motivation that promotes approach toward and consumption of rewards with distinct psychological and neurobiological components. Incentive salience is focused on reward-relating stimuli unlike other more cognitive forms of desire meant by the ordinary word 'wanting' that involve explicit expectations and are mediated by cortical circuits. With addiction, the difference between incentive salience and cognitive desires can sometimes lead to what could be called irrational ‘wanting’ for what is not cognitively wanted, caused by excessive incentive salience. To put the term in vernacular, it means a craving that has no rhyme or reason."

"This is supposed to be a party, Sherlock."

"You asked."

"I _know_ what it means," John says. "I was being rhetorical. And I did in fact 'want' a stag party."

"No, you merely find the idea of it appealing because it satisfies a critical step in the progression of adulthood as dictated by much of Western society."

"Nope, I just fancy a night out with my friends before the big day. " John drinks – Foster's, because Mary always drank it and now so did he. His inebriated friends are mingling with equally inebriated women, and not currently 'having a night out' with John in particular. "There's a reason why traditions stick, Sherlock."

"That's what Lestrade said. It's the reason why he picked this venue, apparently. Though clearly the true reason was to provide himself with an opportunity to chat up its patrons."

John frowns. "You . . . but you're my best man."

"Precisely. It was in your best interest to outsource some of my duties to a candidate better suited to oversee stag night preparations. In what way have I not fulfilled my duties?"

John rolls his eyes. "You are brilliant," he concedes begrudgingly, clinking his nearly empty pint to Sherlock's untouched one. "You are amazing."

By the time both his and John's next pints are nearly empty Sherlock is finding the world is bending slightly around the edges, which wobble alarmingly whenever he moves his head. John is red-faced and finishing off his pint. He says, again, "You're amazing. Amazing."

Sherlock tries to discern what had prompted the compliment this time, but all he's done of note in the past half hour is guzzle alcohol like a Neanderthal in order to tolerate listening to John's inane dialogue of hopes and fears over his imminent change in marital status. Sherlock doesn't normally drink very much, but there's really nothing for it - Lestrade had been very clear that Sherlock was _not_ to leave no matter how stupid or boring anything that might transpire became.

John's leaden eyes zig-zag over Sherlock's face. "I've always wondered what it'd be like to kiss you, you know."

"What?"

"No no, not as if . . . not _me_ in particular, just anybody. I mean, I dunno, I just wonder if you'd start analyzing it, and if you'd even kiss back at all."

Sherlock huffs. "I am confident I am as proficient in kissing as in anything else. Clearly idiots like you have figured it out over the years without issue, so I don't see why it should be viewed a such an obstacle for _me_."

John laughs, ignoring him. "I bet you'd rattle off a list of everything I'd eaten in the past 24 hours and explain what that means about my psyche."

Sherlock fumes. He gets up and slides into the other side of the booth with John, lunges at his laughter-strained face and presses their mouths together. John doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, doesn't pull away.

John's eyes are huge and dark when Sherlock can see them again. He's glancing between Sherlock's mouth and eyes. He says, "No that, see that doesn't count," and licks his lips while staring at Sherlock's. "I wasn't ready."

That seems reasonable, so Sherlock kisses him again. He licks along John's lower lip to urge it a little deeper, this time. John's mouth is hot and wet and tastes like beer – of course it is – but what surprises Sherlock is the sweet secretive synapses that fire because of it. Because it's John's mouth, which he's watched John speak with for years, and which he now knows the taste of. John kisses back with his tongue winding against Sherlock's and his breath passing harshly through his nose. 

John tears away with a reluctance which he completely fails to hide with a cough. "Okay, you're not bad," he admits, gone scarlet.

"As I said." Sherlock returns to his side of the booth.

*

"Oh this is weird," John says as they enter the flat.

"What is?"

"You know." John sits in his chair. "Being back here, except not living here. Bit weird, is all."

"It wasn't 'weirder' living here when you thought I was dead?"

For a split second John looks stricken, but he clears his throat and it evaporates. "Weird isn't the word I'd use."

Sherlock makes tea. It's generally the thing to do, in John's book. He stands in the kitchen the whole time the water heats up, and watches John sitting unmoving in his chair. Sherlock hates that chair – the cushions are too yielding and the wool blanket itches, and it's facing the window which means the sun (when it's out) is absolutely blinding at 10:22 AM until 12:14 PM during the summer months.

John takes the mug Sherlock holds out for him, and Sherlock sits in the chair opposite and sips from his own - Bettys, £7.95, Assam blend, because that was what John always drank here.

John _ah_ 's after his first sip, rests the mug on his thigh. "Interesting case, though."

"Pedestrian," Sherlock says. "Predictable. Lord Robert knows next to nothing about the female sex."

"And you do?"

"I've seen enough of human behavior at its worst in this line of work. I also took several courses in human psychology while at university."

"Just because you understand behavior in theory doesn't mean you can truly empathize with it."

"I think I've done rather well for myself, considering my _crippling_ disadvantage . . . "

"Think of it this way," John says. "What if you learned everything about music, how to read it and how to play it and everything, but you'd never actually heard it? Your method of approaching it and reacting to it would be entirely different."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Uh huh, and what makes you think you could swing that?"

"Beethoven." 

John is frowning, and worrying Sherlock that maybe he does know that Beethoven had not suffered from hearing loss for his entire life. "What's that?" He sets his mug on the floor and comes closer.

" _What_?"

John pushes Sherlock's fringe aside and peers more closely at his forehead. "You said you were fine."

Sherlock fends him off. "It's just a scratch."

John laughs. "Just a scratch? Your arm's – actually you know what, never mind. It's wasted on you." He peers closer at the wound.

Sherlock squirms. “Stop mothering me.”

“I'm not mothering you, I'm doctoring you. And anyway you do _occasionally_ need mothering, you know.”

Sherlock sinks lower in his chair.

"Stop it," John says. "Doctor's orders."

"Oh, what do _doctors_ really know, anyway . . ."

" _Captain's_ orders."

"Er." Sherlock clears his throat. "Okay."

John checks over the rest of his face, then straightens. "Aha, as I suspected. You need a plaster." He doesn't move.

Sherlock meets his gaze, can't successfully decipher it and wonders, " . . . Are you going to kiss me again?"

John looks at Sherlock's mouth and his whole face changes, not blushing but clearly basking in the sensory memory of it for the moment. He soon looks away and jokes, “Not _everything_ is about sex, you know.”

"I think Dr Freud may disagree with you there.”

“Fine by me," John says. "Who takes Freud seriously anymore anyway?”

Sherlock's heart rate accelerates, unprecedented, stupid. "You want to kiss me again, though," he says, then feels horribly breathless.

John's face, which is awash in sunlight now, can't decide on a reaction. He sighs, half-laughs, shakes his head. "My tea's getting cold."

Sherlock catches his sleeve before he can complete the step back to his chair. John curses under his breath but doesn't flinch when Sherlock stands up in his personal space, and John even kisses him first again.

It's an intoxicating blur of moments and impulses that leads them to Sherlock's bedroom. John's soft slow kisses turning hard and urgent. John's hands running up and down his back. Sherlock pushing him against the fireplace and John pushing him back so they stumble toward the kitchen. Barely navigating the chairs and flicking on the steel-finished lamp on the nightstand before making it to the bed.

John is on him so quickly, straddling Sherlock's hips and bending over to kiss him, hands gripping bedsheets as if to anchor himself. Sherlock enjoys the resulting deliriousness of the assault, nerve endings lighting up and blood pooling urgently between his legs. He's freed by the feeling, the single-mindedness of such a pure physical desire. His hands slip down John's sides to his hips and he grinds up into him to create further friction.

John hums his approval, kisses him harder – impractically hard – while rutting against Sherlock as well. 

"If you're so desperate for sex," Sherlock says, though John's mouth gets in the way a lot. "Then why aren't we having sex?"

John laughs. "Foreplay not doing it for you? I must say I think you're lying about that . . . " He thrusts against Sherlock's erection for emphasis. 

"While I understand the purpose of foreplay prior to sexual intercourse, it - "

John's mouth stoppers Sherlock's gently. "I'll fuck you right now, if you're uninterested in formalities."

Sherlock nearly shivers at John's tone of voice. "There's lube in the kitchen."

"What?"

"Experiments."

"What? Experiments with _who_?"

Sherlock sighs. "I'll get it. Take off your clothes while I'm gone." He leaves the bedroom and digs the little bottle out of a drawer.

As he's closing the bedroom door again John says, "Sherlock that is baby oil."

"Yes." Sherlock takes in the sight of him completely naked and the reality of what they're doing hits him – sex with John, and John wanting that. It catches stupidly in his throat.

Sherlock follows John's eyes, which are lingering on Sherlock's now unavoidably tented trousers. Sherlock unbuttons his shirt one-handed, something he's become quite adept at over the years. "Very useful for removing certain kinds of paint from the skin," he says, kicking his shoes and socks off and holding the bottle with his teeth whilst shimmying out of his trousers and pants. "Or wax or various other substances." He sits on the bed beside John, John's eyes gone wide and hungry at the sight of him, then takes John's hand and pours some of the oil into it.

"Hey!"

Sherlock leans into him, breathes in the scent of his hair and murmurs to his ear, "I've never done this before. Show me."

John doesn't bother protesting that for his part, he's not done this with another man. He turns his head to kiss Sherlock, and as Sherlock's eyes close he feels John's oiled hand close around his cock. It feels unbelievably good, oil warmed by John's body heat and delightfully slick and then John is jerking him deliberately.

Sherlock, who is normally very adept at multitasking, can't manage to kiss him back while John touches him. He can't think at all, in fact, so he falls back until he's lying on the bed and pulls John down with him and hopes John will just take care of thinking from now on.

John worries Sherlock's bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, then bites and kisses along the side of his neck. Sherlock can hear as well as feel John's breathing speeding up, gusting hotly across wet skin and his solid heaving chest against Sherlock's.

Sherlock already feels disorientated, but he also wants more of it. He drags one of John's hands down between his legs and John's head snaps up. Sherlock hands him the oil and John takes it, returning to kissing Sherlock's neck as he presses a finger inside. 

Sherlock is caught off guard by how quickly John finds his prostate, though of course he shouldn't be. The havoc of signaling chemicals and short-circuiting neurotransmitters is dazzling and Sherlock's eyes close helplessly. That he's melting is all he can think. He moans when John hits it again, arcs his head back against the pillow.

"Fuck," John gasps. When Sherlock opens his eyes John is looking at him so ravenously.

John removes his finger, fumbling to add more oil and another finger as he pushes back inside Sherlock's arse. The extra lube makes the stretch feel satisfying, in a way. John avoids directly stimulating his prostate for the most part, though he makes sure to brush over it every so often to remind Sherlock what such tedious preparation is in service of. 

Sherlock suspects that more fingers are added but it's difficult to keep track when John has taken to rubbing over his perineum as well. The fullness is invasive in an exhilarating way, and John keeps fucking harder into him, bends to suck one of Sherlock's nipples and mouth randomly across his chest with his sweaty forehead pressing against Sherlock's collarbone. John's shaky puffs of breath and his hair sticking to Sherlock's skin turns Sherlock on as much as the clever fingers buried inside of him. Whenever Sherlock remembers it's John who's reduced him to this mess of unbridled hormones and vasodilation he can't even breathe.

"I want more." Sherlock licks his lips. "John."

John groans and plants a kiss against a particularly protruding rib before sitting back on his heels. "You should get on your knees."

Sherlock makes to move, then finds he's not entirely sure what John had meant – 

"Shit, you're so . . . " John's voice nearly breaks, and he shakes his head and exhales calmingly. He drags Sherlock closer, urges him to reposition himself, hands so hot and lingering to caress him everywhere. "Turn around. Yeah, okay."

Sherlock finds himself on his hands and knees feeling thrillingly vulnerable, staring at his headboard and struck by how the familiar bit of furniture and the green damask wallpaper above it will _always_ trigger his memory of this exact moment. He hears John squirting more oil into his hand, can't hear him coating his cock with it but deduces it from John's sharp intake of breath. The image makes Sherlock want to turn back around and touch him wherever John wants with hands and mouth and tongue. He doesn't do that, though, because John's hips press up against Sherlock's arse and he rubs his cock between the cheeks a little before aligning with his hole and shoving in.

John's rubs one hand up and down Sherlock's back, smearing sweat along his spine, while the other hand holds tightly to Sherlock's hip as he sinks deeper. It's overwhelming and both too fast and too slow, and Sherlock almost forgets the reason it's even happening until John pulls out a fraction and slams back inside.

"John," Sherlock says, like cursing. Then like begging when John's thrusts slow and become more hesitant, " _John_."

John tugs Sherlock's body back a little, nudges his legs wider apart and starts fucking him harder. It feels better, like before with just John's fingers, his cock so amazingly thick and sliding wonderfully across Sherlock's prostate from this angle. Sherlock tries to buck into it, but can't seem to get the leverage. John notices, though, and curls his body around Sherlock's snugly while pumping faster. 

"That," Sherlock whines. "God, that’s . . . _ah_!"

"So good," John is muttering to Sherlock's back. "So, so good, Sherlock . . ."

"So much better than exaggerated personal accounts had led me to believe," Sherlock babbles. "Remarkably similar to - _uhh_ , yes yes - I don't, I can't, just don't stop, oh please keep doing that . . . "

John growls and pushes Sherlock's shoulders down til Sherlock is smothered against pillows and rolled up sheets. "You're so fucking tight, _Jesus_." He fucks Sherlock so hard they're now inching up the bed with every thrust.

Sherlock's speech deteriorates into a jagged ramble of moans and pleas and obscenities. He can sense the approach of orgasm but knows that this alone won't be enough so he wraps a hand around his bobbing dick and strokes it quickly, out of sync with John's thrusts but the syncopation propels the pleasure forward until Sherlock's biting his lip and desperate to come.

John stops moving abruptly, but Sherlock's groan of protest is cut off by John's hand covering Sherlock's and squeezing his cock, guiding Sherlock's hand into a rough rhythm that makes Sherlock go mindless, then dropping his hand to roll Sherlock's balls between his fingers and press against Sherlock's prostate with his thumb outside and his cock inside, jostling little thrusts right against the bundle of nerves until Sherlock cries out and comes spasmodically over his belly and rumpled bed.

John lets most of Sherlock sink into the mattress but lifts his arse up to offer a couple of frantic final thrusts before spilling into him with a bitten off moan.

He pulls out of Sherlock before he's even finished coming, cock still mostly erect as he settles on his back on unsteady limbs. Sherlock lies with his face buried in the pillow until the weighty wave of drowsiness begins to lift, and then he flips over onto his back as well to let his skin cool. 

"That was fantastic," John says dreamily. It's the kind of voice he uses for good food or when Sherlock tells him something that John should already have worked out. "I can't believe I . . . with _you_."

Sherlock shrugs. "I could certainly find a sexual partner fairly easily if that was a priority of mine."

"I didn't mean that I _literally_ couldn't believe it."

Sherlock turns onto his side, throws a leg and an arm over John and gets comfortable with his head on the edge of a pillow. 

"Okay, _this_ I literally can't believe."

"Sentimentality is not only a trait I personally find to be repugnant, but is unquestionably detrimental to retaining one's sensibility," he says, which is muffled between John's shoulder and the pillow. "However I am discovering that oxytocin levels during the post-coital refractory period are . . . " He pauses to yawn. "Mm . . . more substantial than anticipated."

John laughs. "So you _want_ to cuddle."

"That's not what I said."

*

The next time, Sherlock kisses John in a cramped dirty alleyway until they're both so turned on they open their trousers and jerk each other off while Marylebone Road traffic roars by mere meters away.

After that, Sherlock sucks John's cock in the stairwell at Baker Street and John bites his hand to keep from making noise while Mrs Hudson is cooking aromatic potatoes below their feet. John kisses him afterward, seemingly determined to lick up his taste, then uses his mouth and skillful hands to bring Sherlock off on the sofa.

The time John wants Sherlock to penetrate him is especially fantastic because he rides Sherlock in John's worn out chair while morning sunlight streams in through the windows and throws his face into shadow. John looks down at where they're connected and breathes so quickly that Sherlock expects him to hyperventilate, keeps gasping, _Oh my God_ , and _Sherlock_.

_You know just how to fuck me,_ Sherlock tells him every time John does it to him instead, because he does and it's wonderful to have John wanting him and pleasuring him as though nothing else matters.

"I love this," Sherlock says one day, still panting and sprawled across his bed while John gets dressed. 

John pauses with his belt buckle. "Sherlock, you know this can't - " John interrupts himself with a laugh, leans over to brush Sherlock's curls out of his eyes. "How can you even see like that?"

"Thank you."

John nods. "Yeah. Well, then." He yanks his jumper over his head. "Text me if you need me, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock says. He lies on his sweat-damp bed and can't get to sleep after John leaves.

*

> **24 year old male. Two  
>  gunshot wounds. He   
> claimed on the 999 call  
> that his own gun had  
> backfired, and while on   
> the call shot himself again.  
> SH **

> It would've deafened  
> the 999 operator though  
> wouldn't it? 

> **Will you come?**

When John arrives at Baker Street he looks ordinary, wearing a plaid shirt and hair not completely dried from his shower. Sherlock knows what his shampoo smells like, how his skin will feel softer, anticipates the acidity of coffee in John's mouth and confirms his hypothesis by kissing him for several minutes against the sliding door to the kitchen and causing it to creak and rattle.

John slips away to the side, unexpectedly furious around the eyes. "What about the case?"

"You said to text you when I needed you," Sherlock reminds him. He undoes the top few of John's shirt buttons, then drags a delicate finger down the center of his chest, steps closer. "And I already solved the case."

"Didn't mention that." John is still displeased, but his breathing quickens.

"Didn't I?" Sherlock leans in to kiss the side of John's neck, nuzzles and continues speaking against the sweet-smelling skin. "It's true that both gunshots came from the same gun, however it wasn't the victim's. Lovers' quarrel. Predictable, really – he rather set himself up for it, with several domestic disputes on record. And you never specified what you meant by texting you when I needed you."

"I certainly didn't mean you should text me whenever you want sex."

"But I do," Sherlock says quietly, tilts John's chin to kiss him. John's mouth opens on a tiny gasp and Sherlock loves this part – John always says his name and clutches Sherlock's arm and gives himself over.

Instead, John turns away from him into the dim unlit kitchen, puts three adamant paces between them before turning back around. "We can't keep doing this," John says, with gravity and like they'd both known it was coming. " _Mary_ , Sherlock," he adds, inexplicably annoyed that Sherlock hadn't jumped to the same conclusion.

"You love her?" Sherlock hazards.

"I love everything about her. I mean it."

"But you enjoy having sex with me. I don't see where the conflict lies." John constantly disappointed Sherlock with how typical he was. He wore what was worn, said what was said, did what was done, and rarely ever thought about it save for the handful of times Sherlock succeeded in puncturing his world view with logic. Sherlock had so hoped it wouldn't turn out the same way with regard to this.

John's face is uncharacteristically unreadable. "I never imagined I'd do something like this. I always thought cheaters were the sort of blokes who wanted to shag younger girls and didn't care at all about their wives. Or the younger girls."

"What are you saying?"

"I feel guilty no matter what I do anymore!" John shouts, and his voice grows less and less controlled as he continues, "I spend my day trying to find moments to forget about the guilt, I mean that's . . . that's _all_ I do! That's _it_! And I still keep cheating anyway, and I just . . . goddammit, what the hell does that say about me?"

"You don't feel guilty about cheating," Sherlock explains impatiently. "You feel guilty about breaking the social mores that surround monogamy."

"I'm still guilty _of_ it!" 

"Really, John, do you think that mine is the most objective opinion on this subject?"

John laughs. "The sad thing is, I think it genuinely is. " He rubs a hand over his face. " _Can_ we go back to being friends? Would it even be possible now?"

"Certainly," Sherlock says. "I can easily find someone else to have sex with. You were merely convenient."

John blinks rapidly, nods. "Well, just. You know, text me if you need me. If you need help with a case. And I mean you don't have to if you change your mind about all . . . er, yeah. It's fine if you—"

"I will."

John nods again. Then he leaves.

*

Sherlock watches from the alleyway, and John doesn't see him yet.

He gets out of an economical Vauxhall Ampera and Mary leans out of the window to kiss him goodbye. It's a proper kiss, lingering and thorough and John smiles at her afterward, then kisses her quickly again. He even waves as she drives away.

Sherlock steps out of the shadows and John spots him. He's still glowing from the kiss, and his mouth is wet. Sherlock wonders whose saliva it is, if Mary had run her tongue there and urged the kiss deeper or if it was from John licking his lips afterward like he always did when Sherlock kissed him.

"Morning," John says, glancing around at the crime scene. "I see Anderson's here." 

"Theoretically."

John laughs. Normally he would've looked Sherlock in the face, but he only looks at the police officers milling around behind him. "Okay, let's get a move on."

Sherlock watches him laughing with Lestrade and wants him immeasurably. He'd only ever considered kissing John three times, before – the first time they'd gone to Angelo's and John had come on to him but denied it in favor of the social simplicity of heterosexuality; when Sherlock had had to rip packs of semtex off of him; as the decoy call had come about Mrs Hudson being shot.

He'd only _wanted_ to kiss John after John had kissed him, and now . . .

Sherlock follows after him.

*


End file.
